


An Evening in Stuttgart

by CaptainR0cket



Series: Loki’s Monstrous Children [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Norse Religion & Lore, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:41:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22764160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainR0cket/pseuds/CaptainR0cket
Summary: Loki has a little time to kill before visiting the gala.  An evening of fine dining takes an unexpected turn when a visitor from the Iron Wood appears.  This takes place during the events of The Avengers (2012).
Relationships: Loki/Angrboda
Series: Loki’s Monstrous Children [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1781284
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	An Evening in Stuttgart

**Author's Note:**

> The characters in this story have been lovingly borrowed from the Marvel Universe and Norse mythology.

Crisp linens, sparkling cutlery, the delicate background symphony of a busy Michelin-starred restaurant: Midgardian opulence, Loki decided, had its charms. Distance from the Tesseract had loosened its hold enough for him to recall the finer things the little backwater realm had to offer. This restaurant in Stuttgart, for example. It would be, he decided, perverse for him to do anything less than enjoy his meal while waiting for Barton’s compatriots to appear.

A disturbance out over the lake; a breath of something came through the half-opened windows of the pavilion, and Loki’s throat tightened. Not Barton’s heroes, then, nor his brother, whom he half-suspected would appear before too much time passed. Something not of this world, but very, very familiar.

The witch.

Angrboda, giantess, Witch of the Iron Wood, and mother, he’d recently discovered, of his monstrous son. The idea still pained him; a grief laid over so many, that he would be such an absent father. 

Far from the Tesseract, he could begin to feel again.

She took a moment to gather herself. It was evident in the slight change in the atmosphere, the wind that kicked in the tall trees that bordered the eastern side of the lake. He wondered for a moment what form she would take. He spared a thought for his dining companions, and how they might gasp and startle at the sight of a Jotunn witch in all her glory. He half-hoped she’d stride into the dining room naked and furious, take him in hand, and throw him across the table.

Distance from the Tesseract had, it seemed, awakened other urges as well.

Loki reached out, searching. He could sense her; a stirring in the ether, the taste magic on the air. He felt her focus, her awareness of him; he felt her draw near. There was a disturbance in the reception area of the restaurant. The waiter appeared at Loki’s elbow, flustered.

“My deepest apologies, sir,” the Midgardian murmured discreetly. “We did not realize that you were expecting a guest. A moment only and we will have the table set for two.”

The soft susurration of the dining room rose in pitch and then fell, and Loki fixed his eye on the entryway.

His heart thumped. 

She was _exquisite_. 

She stood head and shoulders over the maitre d, who fussed and tutted, knowing not what to do with his hands as he ushered _madame_ across the dining room. A Midgardian man, red-faced from wine and good food, half-stood before his wife caught his arm and drew him back down to his seat.

Angrboda wore black, Loki noted. Simple and elegant, the gown poured over the generous curves of her body and pooled around her feet. Her toned arms and broad shoulders were bare; her back, he noted from the reflection of the mirrored fixtures on the wall, was exposed, the dress held in place by two slender straps. Her pale skin was luminous, flawless, and his mouth watered at the thought of her long, shapely legs.

He stood as she approached, and held out his hand for hers. His charge safely delivered, the maitre d stepped back, discreetly dabbing at the sheen on his brow. All about them, the world appeared to take a collective breath, and then continued on.

Loki bent at the waist and lifted her hand to his lips. It was very much her hand, he noted, familiar but for the red lacquer on the almond-shaped nails. He lingered for a moment, heart twisting in his chest, until she withdrew her hand and cupped his jaw.

He straightened and held himself still for her inspection. Her eyes _very much her eyes_ were deep brown, lined with black. Her brows, heavy and dark, constricted, and the corner of her red mouth curled up.

“Alive,” she breathed tenderly. Her hand left his face to curve around his neck, and she drew his forehead to hers. “I could not believe it when I heard. What has happened to you?”

The cut of her dress ensured that Loki could not find a place to hold her that did not involve laying his hands on a wealth of skin. He settled for high on her slender waist, fingers tightening automatically, and felt her soft exhalation against his lips.

A noise stirred around them like the beating of a bird’s wings: the inconsequential movement of the dining staff as they arranged the table. Angrboda withdrew, to Loki’s sudden, pained chagrin, and delivered herself into the care of the maitre d. 

Loki settled himself across from her. The waiter fussed for a moment; a glass of wine for _madame_ , a special black napkin unfolded with a care for _madame’s_ dress, another soft murmur of apology, surely if _monsieur_ had informed them…

The man withdrew at last, and Angrboda slid her hand across to grasp Loki’s.

“My… son?” he whispered, and her fingers tangled sweetly with his.

“Strong,” she replied, and her voice was low and melodious. He could see the pleasure in her face, that his first thought had been for the child they had created together. “Strong, and clever, and beautiful. Will you come to see him?”

Loki swallowed. “I cannot be welcome on Jotunheim,” he murmured, and made to withdraw his hand. Her fingers tightened.

“The damage from the Bifrost was undone in a moment’s time by the Builder’s Tool,” she soothed. “Odin himself brought the Casket of Ancient Winters to Jotunheim to repair the damage done, and more. Utgard prospers. The Iron Wood prospers. The fury of your passing made way for the first spring in a millennium. You are not only welcome on Jotunheim, Loki; you are _expected_.”

The Tesseract hummed sweetly along the edge of Loki’s awareness. He thought of the impatient Chitauri, of the promise enacted by Thanos, and shivered.

“You are unwell,” Angrboda observed. “You are not yourself.”

Loki pushed away the thought of the Tesseract. “There is something I must do here,” he said quietly. “The stage is set. There is no alternative.”

Her dark eyes glowed. “This illness must run its course,” she murmured, “or else it will burn you alive.” She leaned around the table and pressed her lips to his. It was a chaste kiss, little more than the soft brush of her lips and a tender pressure, and still Loki’s breath caught in his throat.

The waiter appeared, respectful, barely there, and deposited the first course on the table. He withdrew, and Angrboda looked at her plate with dismay.

“What is this?” she laughed, and her teeth were bright and sharp. “By the Elements, Loki; tell me that I did not come all the way from the Iron Wood for a _tuber_.”

“Darling,” he murmured, “this restaurant has two Michelin stars. That is, I am assured, a very expensive potato.”

“It cannot even be a whole _potato_ ,” she observed, tilting the plate. He watched her carefully, uncertain of whether Jotnar manners included pitching an offensive offering across the room.

“Quality over quantity, dearest.”

She snorted, and turned to regard the other diners, eyes bright. Her dark hair, piled high on her head, shone like a raven’s wing, and the delicate drops she wore in her ears swung and danced in the low light. Sea glass, polished, delicate, collected from the shores of the great sea that raged below the boundaries of the Iron Wood. Her ticket home, so to speak.

“How did you find me?” he asked, and her fingertips lay sweetly across her collarbone in response. He could see it, then, the figure he’d given her; the delicate carving wrought by his magic bound them together across the realms, pressed smoothly against the patterned flesh of her Jotunn form.

“I thought to fashion it into a torque and wear it around my neck,” she said, interrupting a rush of carnal memory, “but considered it might ruin the effect of my gown. The bare throat is better, is it not?” Her red-tipped fingers brushed her jaw, drawing his gaze, and she leaned forward to whisper. “I am bare nearly everywhere in this form. It is so strange.”

The part of Loki that could still think wondered if any of the diners in this restaurant would recall, in the days to come, the sight of their new king and overlord struck dumb over the first course of his dinner.

Angrboda smiled wolfishly, and looked not a bit sorry. “Eat your potato, Loki,” she advised. “You look _hungry_.”

The meal was everything he had hoped for. Eight courses expertly crafted, paired with the best of Midgardian wine. The Midgardians had little enough to redeem them, Loki thought, but they managed to work with what they had. He enjoyed eating it nearly as much as he enjoyed watching Angrboda delight at each new flavor and texture.

The strasse was lit for early evening by the time they left the restaurant. It was a grievous sin to cover Angrboda’s shoulders, but he slung his coat around her graceful form before they crossed the threshold. The cameras in this sector had been disabled in passing; he was not due at the rendezvous point, was not expected to be found, until later that evening. They were, to all appearances, another couple enjoying the early summer evening.

There was _time_.

The sight of her fingers caressing the lapels of his coat stoked the fire that already burned in his blood. His hand, solicitous on her back, trembled, and she turned to lean into him. “There is a place nearby,” he breathed, and felt the curve of her smile against his neck. “Come with me.”

It dismayed him to hear the need in his voice; he heard in its echo the young man he had so desperately worked to leave behind. Angrboda pressed a kiss above his collar.

“Yes, Loki,” she whispered. His arms were empty in the next moment, and she stepped away, eyes shining. “What is taking you so long?”

It was simple enough to procure lodgings; the little rectangular piece of plastic (credit card, the link to Barton supplied) was enough to open doors throughout Stuttgart. A twist of magic, a scramble of letters on a computer screen, and they were ushered into a large, well-furnished room.

“They are nearly Asgardian in their need for comfort,” Angrboda remarked. “The bed is…”

Loki’s hand on her waist silenced her, and she turned to meet the hungry press of his mouth. He was ravenous; starved for contact, his kisses grew demanding. The press of his legs against hers and the pressure of his hands on her skin led them deeper into the room. Her hands tangled with his as he sought to divest them both of the clothing they wore. A moment of frustration and their clothes were gone, magicked into some in-between place.

“I’m going,” Angrboda gasped, and rocked into the insistent press of his hips, “I’m going to need that dress.”

 _A million dresses, as many as she wants,_ the Tesseract sang as Loki bit at her throat. _Crown her in glory. Cloak her in the burning grace of a million stars. Bathe her in the blood of centuries..._

 _Hush,_ his mind pleaded, broken, and pushed back against the glow of the Tesseract. _Let me have this. Let me…_

“Loki,” Angrboda soothed, and her hands were cool on his damp face. Was he weeping? He blinked, disoriented, aching, and she pressed him down onto the bed. “Loki.”

He shuddered, and struggled to command his limbs to pull away from her. “I should not have brought you here,” he groaned. “You should not have come to Midgard.”

Her form shifted, and she was Angrboda, his Angrboda, once more. “No, cherished one,” she sighed, and embraced his trembling frame. “I was right to come.” She pressed her forehead to his. “Breathe with me. Breathe, Loki.”

The panic passed and she cradled him, her body sweet and cool against his fevered skin. Gentle hands stroked through his hair, kneaded the tension from his shoulders. His breathing slowed and she sang, a sweet, wordless song that evoked early morning mist and dew-soaked blossoms of the Iron Wood tree. 

He clung to her until his hands remembered how to do something more than clench and bruise. He caressed her then, tenderly, and her song echoed sweetly in his ears as he traced the patterns on her skin with steady fingers.

Loki felt older; he felt as if he were a thousand years removed from their first frantic couplings, rather than the span of a dozen or so Midgardian months. They’d been driven by passion then, half-mad with the heat of Asgardian summer. This, he realized, as she sighed and arched under the slow slide of his hands, was something more.

“Darling,” he breathed, and pressed soft kisses to the delicate tracery of lines across her collarbone. _Giving_ , his mind whispered around the strains of her song. _This is giving._ Generous with kisses, he drew her down beside him, his mouth soft on the curve of her breast. 

_Fuller here_ , he realized. Seeking, his hands molded themselves to the curves of the body that had sheltered his son. 

“Have I changed so much?” Angrboda whispered, and in her dark eyes he could read a fleeting vanity reserved, he suspected, only for him. 

“You have only grown more yourself,” he replied, “and more beautiful.”

“Silvertongue,” she laughed, breathless, and he lapped at the curve of her breast. A variation in the texture of her skin caught his attention, and he summoned light to the tips of his fingers.

“You are scarred all over here,” he murmured, eyes wide. “Angrboda…”

“Loki,” she admonished, and hooked her long leg over his hip to tug him closer to her. “Put out the light and _love_ me.”

She was warm and soft, and very alive. He went willingly.

They came together twice more that evening, and once in the shower, where they burned and froze in equal measure until he sent a blast of cold through the pipes so intense that they burst at the source and initiated a boil order for the entire city. He found her dress but could not locate her shoes, and she walked shamelessly barefoot along the strasse and down to the edge of the lake.

There she stood, her long dark hair a riot in the soft breeze, the cold water of the lake lapping at her ankles. “Let me see you,” he asked quietly. “Show yourself again to me, before you go.”

A spell of concealment, whispered into the breeze, and the illusion dropped away. She stood before him, dressed in the raiment of her people, crowned with great antlers banded round with copper. The hereditary marks on her forehead were painted over with ochre and ash, and black eyes shown from skin so pale it could be translucent.

He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. “Tell my son I cherish him.”

She smiled, and pressed her forehead to his. “Safe travels, wanderer,” she said, and the scent of her hair was laden with wood-smoke and spice. A fleeting kiss and she was gone, a distant light in the sky.

Loki stood there for awhile, lost in thought, and then went to meet his destiny.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm working to figure out how to format text in HTML. This text is a one-shot related to a series I've started, in an attempt to reconcile Loki's mythological, monstrous children with the Marvel Cinematic Universe. If you enjoy this work, keep your eyes out for more!


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